As I sit to write this entry, I’m listening to the great Janis Joplin. After I popped the CD into my computer, I realized this sad fact…I’m three years older than she was at her death. Meaning that yeah, her life may have been tough, but not a single one of her songs can comfort me through this one.
I’m kidding, really. I have been looking forward to turning thirty since about 24. It was right around that age that I started working for the tourism office in Randolph County (which of course I left when Jake hired me in 2001). In my marketing job at the tourism office, I traveled just a little—to a few places that might have people willing to visit the fine city of…okay, well to a few places that might have some Richard Petty fans. My first trip was to a trade show in Birmingham, Alabama. This is where I discovered just how young 24 is.
Now I never thought I was old at 24, okay? But in Birmingham, at the socials and hotel bars my boss dragged me to (yes, that’s what tourism development is about, folks—booze), I was told repeatedly that at my age, I didn’t know anything. I was still a baby. Surrounded by middle-aged women (all of whom were divorced, lived with multiple cats, and had that bitter smoker’s voice) (my apologies to the divorced, cat-loving smokers who might read this. Unless you work in tourism, you old biddy.), I was ridiculed, advised, or simply ignored for an entire week.
So this is what I told myself from that experience: women (i.e., girls) in their 20s are not respected by older women. They are seen not as young women, but as old children, who have to live a little before they can leave the kiddie table of life. To me, this meant I had a new goal: reach thirty. Make it to thirty and you’re golden. You too can laugh at the youngsters below you. You’ll be hip, you’ll be cool (though you’ll still hate cats and only smoke when you’re drunk…), and you’ll finally earn the respect of the people in this world every woman is really trying to impress: the other women.
So. This past Saturday I reached my goal: thirty. I debated whether to even blog about it. Two people I care very much about wrote blog entries about turning thirty, and I thought, “What could I possibly say that’d be new?” Tonight, however, I had a revelation as I cussed over a wine cork. I have a few myths to dispel, for anyone else who may be thinking that turning thirty is the solution to your problems.
FIRST AND FOREMOST, I suppose I’ve been telling myself for years now that at the age of thirty, I would suddenly get the hang of the wine bottle. I’ve suffered since the age of twenty-one with…let’s see, Wine For Dummies calls it, “Corkophobia.” (I quote, “Maybe an unsuccessful encounter with an unyielding cork during their formative wine-drinking years has traumatized…drinkers, causing them to develop corkophobia… Besides the emotional trauma they’ve experienced, corkophobics have deprived themselves of most of the world’s best wines…)
Well, tonight after paying bills, I headed to the kitchen for a well-earned glass of the cabernet sauvignon my mom gave me for my birthday (thank you, Mom, it is wonderful!). Confidently, because I’m now thirty, I grabbed the wine tool from our cabinet. I stuck the screw into the cork (in the middle-ish) and began to twist. Twist, twist, twist, all the way in. Ready now, I placed the lever onto the lip of the bottle and pulled. And pulled. Huh. Nothing. I picked up the bottle, cradled it in my left arm, pulled the corkscrew with my right hand. And pulled. Huh. Nothing. Well, this is embarrassing and frustrating.
Five minutes later, I place the bottle on the ground and, bracing it between my feet, I try pulling upward with both arms. Guess what? Nothing. I unscrew the wine tool and try it again. Screw in, pull. Nothing. I found a different wine tool. Screw in, pull. Nothing. Hmm…who would be up at 11:00 pm to come open this bottle for me? Ike is on the movie shoot, probably can’t get away for this. Tom or Mary from across the street…hell, he’s a professional chef…no, too late at night and I’d feel so silly.
And so this is when it hit me: at the age of thirty, I can’t open a wine bottle. Well, eventually I did, but not without consulting Wine for Dummies. The book devotes a whole chapter to “How To Open A Bottle—and What To Do Next.”
A second and third myth I’ve told myself about turning thirty (I have to put these two together and wrap up because apparently at thirty I can no longer function after midnight): At thirty, I’d magically dress better and be more respectable…
Well, to prove these myths wrong, let me tell you about the dinner I had with friends Saturday night…An old college roommate celebrates her birthday two days after me, so we decided to combine our celebration this year in a dinner with friends. She brought 13 friends. I brought 2. Many of you reading this know Sara, who plays a big part in this story, so she’ll be heretofore referred to as…Sara. Okay, so Sara and I drove together to Winston-Salem for this dinner. Before we left my house, I called Old College Roommate. “What are you wearing?” I asked. “Oh, just jeans and a sweater.” Ok, good. Sara, also thirty incidentally, is wearing jeans. I have no jeans, so I wear black pants and a sweater I’ve had since Michael Jackson was black and male. (No, not really, but I did buy it way before Madonna went granola.)
We arrived at the restaurant on time (that’s five minutes late for anyone reading this who hasn’t met me or Sara). (Okay, maybe it was ten minutes.) We look for our crowd, knowing of course that we only know one person in “our crowd.” Fortunately, they’re easy to spot and to hear because Old College Roommate is a loud Italian.
But, huh. What is this? Where are the jeans and sweaters?? These women are dressed…well, I suppose they’re dressed to go out. Nice slacks, blouses, fitted jackets. Make-up perfect and hair (all long and blonde, but of course Sara and I also have long blonde hair. But you know, these women were blondes) just so. Proper small talk about…well, I don’t know what they were talking about, because Sara and I spent the dinner talking to each other. Among a crowd of 15, we could have gotten our own table (which would have been less embarrassing, as Old College Roommate is a loud Italian who was eating in an Italian restaurant that didn’t compare to her mama’s kitchen. Much complaining). Ok, so much for the dressing better part. I don’t seem to be any more suave and smooth than I was Friday…the last day of my twenties.
Finally, the respectable part, which also was a myth dispelled at dinner Saturday night. While enjoying the free cake the restaurant gave me for my birthday, I glanced across the table at a friend of Old College Roommate. She (I swear I’m not paranoid, Sara saw it too) was pointing at me and laughing. It seems that it’s very un-thirty-like to lick the tines of a fork when they’re covered in chocolate.
Significantly, I discovered later that she’s forty-three.
Of course you know what this means, right? Women don’t respect girls in their thirties. New Goal: Reach forty. At forty, I’ll be golden, I’ll be hip. Maybe I’ll even get a cat.